In early March, after a long cold winter, a couple of friends and I were in dire need of some winter sun. And so we decided to go for a short but tropical cycling break. To Dartmoor.
And boy, what a break it was. It broke our legs, it broke our backs and pretty much broke our desire to ever climb 1,484 feet in the hammering rain ever again. But did it break us? Let's take a look through the square window (with windscreen wipers) shall we?
Dartmoor in March is a land for the brave. Or, in my case, the clinically insane. Who else would drive five hours to a vast and bleak moor? Answer – nobody. (Well, except my two friends Tracy and Clare who I had roped in for this little jaunt).
Reaching Okehampton with paniers packed, off we set around The Dartmoor Way. An 88 mile cycle route that circumnavigates the moor, linking quiet farm roads with designated cycle tracks and all scrupulously signposted. Cyclists can choose to pedal the whole route, or as we did, split off the bottom third by going up and over the moor itself. This is aptly named ‘The High Moor Route’ and just to be clear, it is not an easy option.
However, free from family and work responsibilities with three glorious days of cycling ahead of us we were happy and overly smug. ‘What a jolly adventure’ we thought.
After precisely one mile of leaving Okehampton it became abundantly clear that there is no flat land on Dartmoor. It actually has 17,263 hills. And, regardless of whether you cycle the Dartmoor Way in a clockwise or anti-clockwise direction, 80% of them are uphill. Weird.
After precisely two miles of cycling it also transpired that we would be doing the entire thing in pea-soup fog, hammering rain and howling crosswinds (sometimes headwinds of course, but never tailwinds). The rain dripped down our faces, poured down our necks and sloshed into the road below where it swilled about in puddled-potholes mixing with the cowpats. And then, of course, it flicked back up off our wheels and into our faces once again.
The three amigos are not quitters though and so up and down hills we ploughed, unlikely to win any speed trials but enjoying the views - of fog. We passed sopping wet fields where cows huddled under dripping trees, small thatched-house hamlets where nobody was stupid enough to be out and onto the fringes of the moor itself where even the Dartmoor ponies looked unimpressed. Backs to the howling wind, hooves in sodden bracken they were trying, unsuccessfully, to shelter under too-short gorse bushes. There wasn’t a soul on the roads, save the odd farm vehicle. It would have been totally stunning, were it not quite so wet.
BUT. For every challenge Dartmoor chucks at you, the rewards far outweigh it.
During the day we glooped mud from every pore, squelched in shoes that left puddles on the floor and I dare say we didn't smell fresh as daisies. But every café we stopped at welcomed us with open arms and beaming smiles (whilst quietly thinking, where did we put that mop?). In The Café on the Green in Widecombe they gave us seats by the log burning stove and encouraged us to dry our soggy gloves on the hearth. At The Old Forge in Chagford we were warmed with soup, scones and doorstep-sized sandwiches and at Fox Tor Café in Princetown they gave us a standing ovation for getting up the hill without having a heart attack (before serving up coffee and cakes so large they should have carried a health warning).
The evenings saw us roll into the towns of Ashburton and Tavistock - think Clint Eastwood x 3 on bikes. Both are old, pretty and stuffed full of interesting shops and quirky cafes. With warm and welcoming bbs and a good array of cosy pubs to choose from they were the ideal places to thaw out, clean up and rest our aching legs. And of course to rehydrate. With wine.
So after 88 miles of cycling, an elevation gain of 2,418 feet and beaten by approximately 7,000 cubic tons of rain we completed the loop. Exhausted but elated, it had pushed us to the very edge of our abilities. But, even when Clare's teeth were chattering like a runaway train and Tracy was lying upside down in a soggy ditch (mishap after a cattle grid) it never broke us. Rather it lifted us, showed us the kindness of human nature extended towards us, how warm the people of Dartmoor are and what we ourselves could achieve.
So as a winter sun destination? Well. I can highly recommend it. You may lose all feeling in your right foot… and left foot. And hands for that matter. But it will certainly warm the cockles of your heart.
And who needs palm trees anyway. Overrated.
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